


Little Pieces

by Syndal



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Ficlets, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndal/pseuds/Syndal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets and drabbles centering around Samson and the Inquisitor, written in response to one word prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfume

Samson smells her even before he sees her, sniffing at the air like some hunting dog that’s caught the scent, breathing deeply of lavender and spices and _woman_. He fancies that she wears it just for him, for these little talks they have in the dark bowels of the keep. He leans into the bars of his cell, grips them tight, imagines licking that fragrance from her skin until all he can taste is her salt.

When she leaves, the smell of her perfume is all that is left to remind him that she was not a fever dream.


	2. Pillows

Samson rouses with a start, wrenched to wakefulness by a nightmare. His legs are tangled in satin sheets, his head rests on a feather pillow. Maker, how long had it been since he’d slept in a bed like this? He immediately feels out of place, too filthy, too dark for such fine things —

“Morning,” a voice beside him says, soft and feminine.

He turns to see her there, bare save for the sheet draped about her waist, skin aglow with dawn’s light. He had thought, perhaps, that he dreamed the softness of her touch, the warmth of her sex. It would not have been the first time. But here, in this place full of mountain air and the scent of _her_ , he knows that it is real.

“Sleep well?” The Inquisitor asks.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he seals her mouth with a kiss.


	3. Soap

The water sloshes around them with each long, hard thrust he makes. Samson pins her to the edge of the bath, tries to lift her soap-slicked legs and wrap them around his waist, but they slip from his grasp, splashing back into the hot water.

“Trouble?” the Inquisitor laughs.

With a growl and a bruising kiss he wipes the smile from her face.


	4. Gifts

He’s confused when he opens the small lacquered box, but it’s a gift, and he’d never look that horse in the mouth. Samson takes the hair brush, holds it up to the light; a gold handle, inlaid with emeralds. A _woman’s_ brush.

“Thank you,” he says, and then more quietly, “I suppose.”

“You’re welcome,” the Inquisitor replies with a smile. “Use it. You’re starting to look like you’ve lived in a bog your entire life.”

Maker, if Cullen ever caught wind of this, he’d never hear the end of it.


End file.
